The Mafia’s Obsession

Ayla

In my bedroom back home, my phone vibrates beside me, signaling a message from Belle-Ann inquiring about my arrival time at the party. My hands shake slightly as I type a response, then I carefully slip out of my dress, making sure not to mess up my hair or makeup.

The knot in my stomach from the earlier meeting with my father still lingers. Damn him, damn him for thinking he can dictate my life choices. It’s my life, my decision, and I’ll stand firm on that principle no matter what he tries to force upon me.

There’s no way I’m marrying Alessio Razone.

I punch my pillow in frustration, attempting to shift my mindset. What I asserted in my defense remains unequivocally true: legally, they cannot compel me into a marriage against my will. All I have to do is remain resolute and endure until I leave for school. The law is on my side. Ultimately, the worst this situation can do is ruin my evening. And I refuse to let it.

Alright, shifting focus. The party. The theme is “Halloween Starts in August,” essentially an excuse for everyone to arrive in costume. Rifling through my closet, I locate last year’s Halloween ensemble: a red bodysuit with a forked tail, horned headband, and a plastic pitchfork prop. I swiftly slip into it, pairing it with fishnet tights and thigh-high boots.

I’m a seductive devil.

Worried that my parents will get home before I leave, I glance at myself quickly in the mirror, fix my hair, and hurry out to my car. It is officially time to party and think about anything other than my dad and the annoyingly attractive gangster he thinks I’m going to marry.

Maybe I’ll even fuck someone. I’m not saving my virginity for an arranged marriage, that’s for sure.

***

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I park my car across the street from the address I saw on Ayla’s phone. It’s a frat house, one of those places that throws ragers just about every weekend during the semester. I can see tons of college-aged kids milling around outside, holding red solo cups. Most of them are wearing some type of costume, like it’s Halloween.

Actually, this place ishuge. It’s not just one frat house, it’s three, all on the same property, sharing a yard. There must be at least 100 people, not including the line of hopeful freshman queued up to get in the door.

I’m out of my suit now, wearing black jeans and a matching shirt. Grabbing a black bandanna from the glovebox, I wrap it around my face. There, now I’m in costume. A western outlaw or something. Who cares.

Exiting my car, I walk confidently to the front of the line and push past the frat bro guarding the entrance without breaking my stride. He makes as if to stop me, but I’m already past him and walking quickly. He doesn’t follow.

I know how to get into places I’m not supposed to be.

As far as anyone else is concerned, I’m part of the party now. I find a half-empty cup sitting unattended on a bench and I pick it up, the better to blend in. It’s full of some kind of disgusting red jungle juice, but I don’t care. The cup is for holding, not for drinking. I wander slowly around the yard, keeping my eyes peeled for Ayla.

There are two bonfires, but she’s not at either one. She’s not with the group doing keg stands, and she’s not part of the circle in the corner of the yard passing around a pipe. There are so many people here, it’s more difficult to find her than I expected.

Actually, I don’t know what I expected. Coming here wasn’t the most calculated of decisions. Normally, I’m calm, collected, and rational.

Ayla makes me obsessed.

“You’re sure you’re okay if I stay out here by the fire, Ave?”

There. Behind me. Someone just said her name. I glance around surreptitiously and…

Bingo.

That’s her, all right. Now sheisat one of the bonfires, standing next to her friend Belle-Ann who I met at the wedding. She’s wearing this red devil costume with thigh-high boots, and it instantly gets my imagination whirring with all the fucked up ways I want to claim her for myself. She looks like a fucking snack, her bodysuitcut in such a way that I can see the soft creases of her hips tempting me.

Then something happens that makes my blood run hot in a very different way: the guy next to her, wearing a dark cloak and one of those white ghost masks, puts his arm around herand whispers something in her ear.

“I’ll see you in a bit, okay, Bella?” Ayla says to her friend, giggling. “Derek is just going to show me something upstairs.” I step closer, warming myself at the fire so they can’t see my face.

“Okay,” says Belle-Ann, then whispers, “have fun and be safe!”

Belle-Ann re-engages in conversation with the girl next to her, and Ayla starts walking toward one of the frat houses with the guy in the ghost mask. He keeps his hand on her hip, with all the possessive body language of a young man who thinks he’s about to get laid. I follow them at a distance, my eyes fixed on his hand.

Not yours. Mine.

I step inside after them. The atmosphere is intense, laden with throbbing music and the smell of booze. It’s even more crowded than the yard. Drunk, sweaty bodies are everywhere, shouting to be heard over the blasting speakers.

Ayla’s companion pushes his mask up as they go indoors. I see a blandly handsome, clean-shaven white guy who can’t contain his grin. Ayla, to my frustration, seems quite content to let him lead her upstairs, laughing at his jokes and letting him touch her. I climb the steps after them, watching the bouncing movement of the cute little devil’s tail on her ass.

Fuck, I want to do bad things to her.

When they get to the top, she starts poking him with her pitchfork, giggling. He laughs, trying to dodge, then pulls it out of her hands. They wrestle playfully. My blood boils as he presses her up against the wall, both of them breathing heavily. I quicken my pace up the steps.

“My bedroom is just down the hall,” I hear a ghost mask slur as I get closer. “You want to wait for me while I take a leak? Then we can, you know…”

Whoa there, Romeo, leave some pussy for the rest of us.

“Sure,” says Ayla, and I almost chuckle internally. Oh, to be 19 and horny. The bar is on the floor.

I lean against the wall, holding my red cup as a ghost mask leads Ayla through a door at the end of the hall. He reappears a moment later and heads quickly back down the stairs.

I follow.

We pass a bathroom with an enormous crowd around it, but he takes us to another area of the house that isn’t so crowded. There’s a door with a handwritten sign marked “OFF-LIMITS.” He pulls a key out of his pocket, unlocks the door, and steps inside. I put my cup down on a nearby windowsill and wait next to the door.

When it opens a minute later, I force myself inside, shoving ghost mask back in and closing the door behind me. “What the fuck-” he tries to yell, but I cover his mouth, pinning him to the wall and plunging the syringe I have prepared into his neck. His eyes bulged. After a few seconds of struggling, he goes limp.

I stash his body in the bathtub, removing the cloak and mask. I put them on, looking at my reflection in the mirror as I wash my hands with soap and water.

Then I pull the shower curtain closed, leave the room, and use his key to lock the door behind me.